A Lost John Watson
by TheDetachedScribe
Summary: Prompt: What if lestrade has a bit of a break down and starts telling Sherlock about John after the fall; "You weren't there Sherlock! You didn't see him! You weren't the one who got drunk phone calls in the early hours and you didn't run to the cemetery to see him sitting by your grave with his gun in his mouth!"


John Watson was a brave man. Unassumingly brave, admittedly. One might catch sight of John from the corner of their eye but brave wouldn't be the first word to come to mind. His appearance gave off the impression of someone regular. Simple minded. A man who was fortunate enough to lead an easy life with a potential wife and family waiting for him at home as he worked in a job he enjoyed or at least brought money to the table. Nothing dangerous, nothing drastic, nothing threatening.

Simple.

Easy.

Safe.

There aren't three other words that could best contradict the state of John Watson's life and character. His life was in fact full of danger, threats and excitement. It always had been from the moment he joined the army as a veteran right up to the point he met the man who would change his life. He fought bravely, witnessed friends either get shot or worse, blown to pieces. He came out of the war tired, scarred, damaged but starving for something else; he was hungry for the thrill and life without it felt pointless. Life without adrenaline allowed him to mull in the thoughts, in the trauma and slowly turn grey as the world around him followed the monotonous tone of routine. Therefore, it is safe to say that when he met and unexpectedly befriended Sherlock Holmes, his life had changed forever.

Sherlock Holmes was the man who saved him, the man who made him realise life could be beautiful, exciting, colourful as well as dark, vile and manic. Sherlock Holmes revealed life in all dimensions. He made it easy for John Watson to be brave. He made living life the better option.

And so when the moment came for John to return the favour, listening to the breaks in his best friend's voice, watched as the coated figure stood too close to the edge of a building that was too tall to even suggest survival, courage took flight. He stood there, desperate, afraid, helpless as he watched, _watched,_ his best friend, his reason for living, plummet almost effortlessly to his death and at that moment, the threads that were holding him together snapped simultaneously and very quickly, life felt null.

John Watson was brave but without Sherlock, he had forgotten what that meant and Greg Lestrade was the man who knew this better than anyone.

He didn't know John all too well. He knew him through association, thought he was quite a nice lad who kept Sherlock's ego in check and enjoyed reading the blogs he would regularly upload. Unlike most people, Greg could instantly tell the John was not only kind and considerate, but brave. Brave because no coward was a friend of Sherlock's. It took a lot of strength to befriend a man as high maintenance and as selfish as Sherlock could be. Despite loving the man dearly, Greg could see how Sherlock could be cruel and this, his death, although it was tragic, was a cruel ending, not only to Sherlock, but to John Watson too.

He could tell from the moment he came round to 221B Baker Street to check up on Mrs Hudson and found him standing by the doorway, staring blankly into the apartment, unable to take any step further, that something deep inside him had broken. However, the man held it together, put on a brave face and spoke at his funeral, gave a short yet heartfelt eulogy with his voice occasionally cracking and allowed himself to be the shoulder for others to cry on. Even in grief, he showed courage but Greg knew that not too far below that brave facade, John was hurting and it was uncertain just how long he would be able to keep it up.

As everyone watched the coffin lower into the ground, he moved up next to John.

"Hey," he said, gently putting his hand on his shoulder. "Don't hesitate to give me a call, okay?"

John pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes," he croaked before clearing his throat. "Yes, thank you. I appreciate it," he answered, still staring ahead.

"I mean it. I'll check up on you now and then, okay? Just...take care of yourself."

And with that, he let him be. He had no idea just how long he stayed at that grave or how often he visited or if he would even hear from John and he didn't. Not for a while. He assumed that he was getting on, healing, being the brave man he always was however, a few months after the funeral, Greg discovered that John's courage had been slipping away and that without Sherlock, he began to disintegrate.

It was three in the morning. The phone rang relentlessly and almost in an instant, Greg shot up, rubbed his eyes and checked his phone, seeing that it was John and picking it up instantly.

Greg Lestrade (GL) : Hello?

John Watson (JW) : Greg? Is that you?

GL: Yes, is everything okay? It's three o'clock in the morning

JW: It is? (_Slurred) _Oh yes...I see

GL: John?

JW: Yes? Hello?

GL: What's up?

JW: I…(_Voice crack)_ I don't know who else to call. I've tried..I've tried so hard but I…

GL: But what? John?

JW: ….

GL: John?

JW: I don't see the point without him, Greg. I don't see the point he…(_sniffle) _he showed me what life was, how it was...it was meant to be lived...without him it all feels so pointless.

GL: John? Where are you?

JW: I think I've had too much to.. (_hiccup) _to drink.

GL: It's okay, John. I'm here. Talk to me.

JW: I think I...Well no, I know I loved him, he was the best thing to ever happen to me. (_croaks) _He was the best thing...and he's gone.

GL:...Oh john..

JW: How is he gone? He was Sherlock Holmes, god what an arrogant tosser how could he just leave? He can't be gone, Greg, he can't be gone. Please.

GL: I'm so sorry, John.

JW: It's almost like..well, if he's gone then...well..he left a note didn't he?

GL: John?

JW: Maybe I should do the same…

GL: John, where are you?

JW: I should follow him...I'll sleep where he lies..

GL: John!

The phone had cut off and in an instant, Greg shot out of bed, rushed to his car and drove to the graveyard, knowing instinctively that that was where he would be. Having forgotten to put shoes on or to even change, he ran through the cemetery barefooted in his pyjamas and found a small, curled figure crouching before a grave while the chrome, moonlight shade of the street lamp shone over him, his shadow stretching alongside his best friend's grave.

And to his horror, he saw his hand reach for a revolver, pull the hammer back with his thumb with a loud 'click' and shakily, reach his head up, placing the gun inside his mouth and-

"John!"

The man didn't even flinch. Instead, he turned around, the gun out of his mouth, his face puffy from tears and red from drink and soon, Greg pulled him into his arms, took the gun away from his grip and allowed him to sob in his chest for however long he needed.

That night, Greg witnessed the John that was lost, the John that had forgotten how to be brave but also a John who was human like everyone else and grieved his reason to keep living in the first place.


End file.
